


deuces wild

by gracieminabox



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Attempted Sexual Assault, M/M, multiple AUs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 20:38:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12590092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracieminabox/pseuds/gracieminabox
Summary: In every universe...(Or: vignettes that tell the stories of a handful of the countless ways Chris Pike and Phil Boyce could've met and fallen in love, if their horizons had met differently.)Not part of the "horizons" universe.





	deuces wild

_the med student and the physics major_

He was there again. The tall blond guy with the curly hair. Phil had seen him in the medical library at least half a dozen times - they’d made eye contact and smiled (and oh man, did he ever have a cute smile), though they’d never spoken. Phil couldn’t figure out his deal. He assumed he was another med student, because who else would be traipsing through gastroenterology textbooks late at night; but it was weird, because this guy was definitely _not_ in any of his classes.

It was crowded tonight - midterms - and the only seat Blondie could seem to find was right next to Phil. He sat, smiled that deadly smile, and cracked open the book he’d pulled. Phil peered at the spine; endocrinology tonight. 

They were silent for several minutes when Phil realized that the guy hadn’t turned any pages. “Need any help?” he ventured.

Blondie jumped a little, then smiled again. “Oh, I’m fine,” he managed, his voice low and dead sexy. “I’m just having some trouble with…um…with remembering…the, uh…” he glanced at the page in front of him, “…the causes of pancreatitis. Which…huh, there’s a lot of them.” He frowned down at the page, as if just noticing the list. 

“I get smashed,” Phil said.

The guy looked up at him abruptly, a mildly alarmed expression on his face. “Come again?”

Phil snorted. “It’s a mnemonic,” he clarified. “Idiopathic, gallstones, ethanol, trauma, steroids, malignancy, autoimmune, scorpions and spiders, hyper-metabolic disorders, ERCP, drugs. _I get smashed.”_

The guy raised his eyebrows and smiled again. “Impressive.” He nodded approvingly, assessing. 

Phil went for broke and just asked it. “Are you really a med student?” 

Blondie visibly swallowed. “Uh…physics major.” He flushed lightly. It was adorable. "Physics major...in hope of earning some face time with a med student." That light flush went full crimson.

Phil couldn't keep a grin from his face. “I’m Phil,” he said, sticking out his hand.

The physics major took it. “Chris.”

 

 

 

_the single dad and the doctor_

It was a quiet night in the ER, which is a sentence you _never, ever, ever say out loud_ under penalty of death or dismemberment by whichever nurse has been on shift the longest. But that didn’t stop Phil from _thinking_ it, and leaning back in his chair, wiping his eyes and wondering how many people he could get together for a round of spin-the-tricorder-sensor to kill time. 

Then, of course…

_“I need a doctor, please!”_

Phil and two triage nurses came running. A man stood in the doorway of the ER, a young boy - presumably his son, though it was hard to tell - draped bridal-style in his arms. The boy was whimpering in pain and his left leg definitely wasn’t supposed to bend quite like that.

_Well, this differential won’t take long._

“C’mon in here,” Phil said, ushering them into the nearest curtain. The man - dad? - set the boy onto the bed as softly as he could, gently prying the boy’s fingers off his shirt. “Shh, it’s okay,” he murmured to the boy, “it’s okay, son, I’m not going anywhere, you’re okay.”

“Hey there,” Phil said gently, trying to make eye contact with the inconsolable kid. “What’s your name, pal?”

The boy whimpered out a few panted breaths, then managed to say, “Jim.”

“Hey, Jim. I’m Phil. I’m a doctor. Looks like you broke your leg. Can you tell me what happened?”

Jim just wailed in pain, then looked over to the man, who looked increasingly likely to be his dad. “‘m sorry,” he whimpered.

Phil looked to the dad, who ran a hand soothingly through Jim’s hair before making eye contact with Phil. It passively occurred to Phil that _wow, he’s good looking._ “Gyro-swing,” he clarified. “Jim seems to think he can fly.” 

“Yeah, not without a pilot’s license, kiddo,” Phil said gently, looking up to the biobed readout. Other than a tib-fib fracture and a world of pain, Jim appeared to be otherwise in good shape. He turned back to the man. “You’re Dad, I assume?” The man nodded. “Is he allergic to anything?”

“How much time have you got?"

Phil raised his eyebrows. “Okay, we’ll table the full list for now. Duraphine?”

“That’s fine.”

Phil turned back to Jim. “Okay, Jim. I’m gonna hook you up with some pain meds, and then we’re gonna take care of these bones.” 

Half an hour later, Jim’s leg bones were knitted back together, he was mildly high on duraphine, and his dad was shaking Phil’s hand. “You were amazing with him,” he said, slightly awed. “I can’t thank you enough.”

Phil smiled. “It was my pleasure.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“I’m Phil. Phil Boyce.”

“Phil.” Phil liked the sound of his name in that voice. He liked it a _lot_. “I’m Chris. Thank you.”

 

 

 

_the hotshot and the paramedic_

It was blurry. Everything was blurry. He smelled plasma coolant, and the flickering lights from the instrument panel were burning his retinas right through his eyelids. He could hear… _what? What_ could he hear? Were those voices? Were they cars? Were they sirens? Was it just the blood rushing in his head?

_So tired. Sleep. Want to sleep._

Someone was tapping on his shoulder insistently. _No. Want to sleep. Sleep._

“Pressure’s eighty over palp, pulse thready and rapid…deep lac over the right eye…with the angle on that penetration…punctured kidney at least…pull his records for a type and cross…”

That was definitely a voice, just then. _No, asshole. Leave me alone. Need to sleep. Stop tapping._

“Stay with me. Come on, open your eyes. Stay with me. Can you hear me? Can you open your eyes for me?”

_Ugh. No. Sleep._ He let his eyelids flutter, just for a moment, before grimacing and surrendering again to the pull of that blissful spot between awake and asleep.

“Nope, nope, nope.” The asshole pinched his earlobe, _hard_. He whimpered. “There you go. Can you talk? Can you tell me your name?”

For the first time, the thought danced through his mind that _maybe something bad has happened to me._

“My name’s Phil. I’m with the emergency health service. You’ve been in a shuttle accident. I’m going to try to get you out of here, but I need you to stay with me so I can do that, okay? Let’s try this: Can you tell me your name?”

His tongue didn’t seem to want to work. Opening his mouth hurt. He tasted copper and iron. Somehow, he forced his lips to move. “Chris.”

 

 

 

_the extrovert and the introvert_

Phil couldn’t _wait_ to start kindergarten. Actual, big kid school, like Charlie and Sarah went to, not stupid preschool. That was for _babies_. He and Mama counted down the days until the first day of school, and that Monday morning, he bolted out of bed, shoveled in some breakfast, and was giddy in his seat the whole way to school, unable to understand why Sarah wasn’t more excited as she sat next to him on the way.

A couple of hours into his first day of actual, big kid school, he noticed a boy with curly blond hair sitting alone in the corner of the room. He had on a green and white t-shirt and was staring at the floor, his little hands balled into fists at his sides, his knuckles clenched so tight they were turning white. He almost looked like he was crying. 

_This will not do_ , Phil thought. Gathering his crayons and paper, he got up and walked over to the blond boy, who looked up, very wary. He _was_ crying.

“Hi,” Phil said kindly. The boy jumped a little at the sound of a voice addressing him. “I’m Phil. What’s your name?”

The boy looked nervous, but eked out what sounded like “Chris,” very quietly. 

Phil held out his paper and crayons. “You wanna color?”

The boy sniffled, then smiled a little smile and picked the yellow crayon. “Okay.”

 

 

 

_the preoccupied and the hurried_

Screenwriters of terrible romantic comedies could not have scripted a more cliche scene.

Phil was thirty minutes away from the hospital and had to be in a board meeting in twenty. He had exactly zero time to waste, which was why he was speed-walking down Franklin, weaving in and out of clusters of first-year cadets meadering to their classes and civilian businesspeople trying to get to the office. 

At that exact moment, Chris was emerging from the Night Owl Coffeehouse - coincidentally enough, also on Franklin - with a venti mocha latte, extra sweet, in tow.

(The reader may see where this is going.)

_WHAM!_

Down went Phil’s medkit. Down went Chris’ briefcase. Down went the venti mocha latte, extra sweet - most of it down Phil’s freshly-pressed dress uniform, because of course it did. Chris was full of apologies, Phil full of frazzled refrains of “it’s fine, it’s fine,” as they gathered their detritus off the ground.

“I am so sorry about your uniform,” Chris muttered as they stood back up, flushed a hectic shade of fuchsia. “I’m happy to pay to have it cleaned…”

“No, really, it was an accident, it’s not a big deal,” Phil brushed off kindly, seeing plain as day how miserable Chris felt about it.

“God, I feel like such an ass. Here.” He presented Phil with his card. “When you get it back from the cleaners, comm me and tell me how much it was and I’ll take you to lunch or something.” He thrust the card into Phil’s hands. “I’m so sorry, again,” he said, walking away before Phil could protest.

Without quite knowing why, Phil stopped and glanced at the card.

_Capt. Christopher V. Pike, Commander of Cadets, Starfleet Academy_

_the apprehensive and the bike-rider_

“I cannot _believe_ I let you talk me into this, Culber,” Chris muttered around a mouthful of toothpaste. Hugh, perched on the side of the tub and perusing a magazine, gave Chris an affectionately exasperated look.

“It’s a blind date, not an arranged marriage.” 

Chris swished, spit, and wiped his mouth. “I don’t do blind dates. I barely even do _regular_ dates. You know this.”

“Yes, dear,” Hugh said distractedly, flipping a page, “and I’ve been eternally patient listening to you bitch about coming home to an empty house and a Stouffer’s TV dinner for more than a year. It’s _time_ , my dude.”

Chris whined unbecomingly for his age and looked dangerously close to stomping his foot. Then he softened slightly, hugging his middle. “Hugh,” he sighed, “I haven’t even been interested in anyone since everything with Becca crashed and burned. I’m a little afraid I’ve forgotten how this all works.”

Hugh gave Chris a sympathetic, slightly pitying look. “Oh, Chris.” He slapped him on the shoulder. “Look, it’s like riding a bike. It’s gonna be fine. Paul says this guy is really chill. There’s no pressure, nothing to prove - you just go and have a good, low-key time. You’ll probably come away friends, if nothing else.” 

Chris nodded, bouncing on his feet a little, as if psyching himself up. “Riding a bike,” he said, straightening his tie. “Riding a bike. Right.”

Twenty minutes later, Chris walked into the hole-in-the-wall Indian restaurant, peered around the room, and zeroed in on the back of a head of light brown hair. 

“Excuse me,” he said lowly, “are you Phil?”

The brunet turned, and Chris found himself fixated on bright, oddly intriguing blue eyes.

“I’m Chris,” he introduced himself. “The other piece in Paul and Hugh’s little backgammon game.”

 

 

 

_the protector and the trapped_

He knew better, really.

He knew better than to stay at this stupid party that he hadn’t even wanted to come to in the first place after Paul and Hugh had gone back to their dorm.

He knew better than to keep drinking whatever the hell was in the drinks they were pouring.

He knew better than to flirt back.

Yet here Phil was, in someone’s darkened bedroom, pinned under and being felt up by someone whose name he didn’t even know, with a horrible case of the spins to boot.

Words like _stop it_ and _no_ were not in this guy’s vocabulary, it seemed. _Does he not hear me, or does he not care?_ Phil wondered, paradoxically calm in his head. _Or maybe I just think I’m saying the words out loud but I’m too drunk to realize that I’m not._ He felt panic building in his chest and he squirmed, desperately trying to get out from under this asshole. He tried to knee the guy in the groin, but he couldn’t lift his knee. In desperation, he tried to hit him in the face, but he didn’t budge.

Phil felt a hand at the zipper of his jeans and started to hyperventilate, the world going fuzzy at the edges. He was at a point of panicked acceptance that his fate was inevitable when the room was suddenly flooded with light from the hall as the bedroom door banged open.

“What the fuck are you doing, man?” a voice intoned, low and furious. Phil looked up; a long, lean, masculine silhouette was outlined in the doorway.

The guy pinning Phil to the bed was abruptly yanked off of Phil’s body, letting him breathe again, and Phil heard, but did not see, the sickening sound of occipital skull meeting drywall. When he looked up again, it was to see a figure running off down the hall, past Phil’s rescuer in the doorway.

Immediately, Phil sat up, curled into a ball, and tried to catch a couple of short, panicked breaths. The bed dipped beside him, and he looked up to see an extremely handsome man giving him the gentlest expression he could possibly imagine. 

“It’s over,” the man murmured. “It’s okay. He’s gone. You’re safe.” 

Phil grabbed at the stranger and buried his face in his sweatshirt, not realizing until that moment that he was shaking like a leaf. He felt spinny again, and horrifically nauseated.

“Do you have a safe way to get home?” Phil’s rescuer asked. Phil shook his head. “Okay. I can get you home. I’m DDing tonight; I haven’t had a drop. Is that okay?”

Phil nodded mutely.

“Okay. I’m Chris, by the way.” 

Phil pulled away, taking a couple of deep breaths. “I’m Phil.”

 

 

 

_the lonely and the dumped_

**docpjb whispers to captmojave:** so is that an ad campaign or…

**captmojave whispers to docpjb:** ???

**docpjb whispers to captmojave:** eh, ignore me. a name like “captmojave” just makes me think of some ridiculous cartoon character they'd put in a mojave tourism campaign

**captmojave whispers to docpjb:** hahaha, like a joshua tree or something with captain’s stripes on?

**docpjb whispers to captmojave:** with a coyote first officer probably

**captmojave whispers to docpjb:** omg yes. i’ll never be able to book a flight home again without that mental image.

**docpjb whispers to captmojave:** i aim to please :) 

**captmojave whispers to docpjb:** so what brings you to this weird part of the internet at this hour of night?

**docpjb whispers to captmojave:** well, if you must know, i recently got dumped, my two best friends are on their honeymoon, and i wanted company in non-canine form while i eat my feelings

**captmojave whispers to docpjb:** ah. been there, man. sorry about the breakup :(

**docpjb whispers to captmojave:** it’s ok. it was probably for the best but it still hurts

**captmojave whispers to docpjb:** were you together long?

**docpjb whispers to captmojave:** couple of years. he just couldn’t see a future with me. i’m only realizing now that i couldn’t either.

**captmojave whispers to docpjb:** i know that feeling

**docpjb whispers to captmojave:** i’m phil, btw

**captmojave whispers to docpjb:** nice to meet you phil, i’m chris :)

**docpjb whispers to captmojave:** your real name isn’t captain mojave??? um, blocked

**captmojave whispers to docpjb:** RUDE

 

 

 

_the fiance and the temptation_

Phil truly didn’t know how in the name of everything good and pure in the galaxy he let Paul drag him to this stupid bar. 

He didn’t know how many drinks he’d consumed in an awfully short span of time.

He didn’t know what he was doing.

All he knew was that he needed to escape. He didn’t want this career, this city, this relationship, this life. It was hell; maintaining the façade was hell, and he couldn’t take it anymore. He was shriveling on the vine and it was hell and he couldn’t even tell anybody.

In fairness, Jack was lovely. Jack was brilliant, sophisticated, sexy, witty, and thoughtful. And Jack was also stubborn, angry, self-centered, controlling, and oh good god, how jealous.

Phil spun the rose gold engagement band on his left ring finger idly, observing that he’d spent a lot of time lately wishing it wasn’t there.

He was at least four drinks in when he saw _him_.

Amazingly sexy. Slightly taller than he was, with thick graying hair, long legs, a chiseled jaw, and eyes that could melt steel.

Phil knew this was trouble. He did it anyway.

They chatted. They flirted. This guy was sharp as a tack and made Phil laugh until he had tears in his eyes. His voice sounded like melted chocolate and he smelled good enough to eat and _that sounds like a terrific fucking idea._  

They kissed. He tasted like top shelf bourbon and citrus.

_He’s a better kisser than Jack._  

They found themselves back at the guy’s place, clinging to biceps, threading fingers into hair, kissing and kissing and _kissing_ and then falling into bed. “I’m engaged,” Phil said, his voice breaking, desperate to unburden his conscience.

The man with the melted chocolate voice stopped. He looked at Phil, carefully, critically. His gaze was powerful enough to strip paint, and certainly enough to strip whatever veneer Phil was using to pretend that his life was okay. 

He saw it in Phil’s eyes. He knew. He got it.

And he kissed Phil again.

They lay together afterward, in a tangle of skin and sheets and sweat. “I’m Phil,” he whispered.

“I’m Chris,” his lover responded quietly.

A stray ray from the sunrise outside came through the window and hit Phil’s engagement band. The ring didn’t bother catching the light.

 

 

 

_the captain and the chief medical officer_

Phil straightened his tunic, took a deep breath, and chimed for entrance to the ready room. A deep _come in_ permitted him entrance, and the doors swished open.

There at the desk, surrounded by PADDs, was his new captain. A baby, as far as captains went; though not much younger than Phil himself, the ruddy cheeks and halo of thick gold curls served to cut ten years off his file’s stated age.

Heaven help him, the man was far more beautiful than his file photo made it seem, and this was going to be a _long_ damn five years. 

“Captain Pike?”

He looked up and met Phil’s eyes, and Phil’s heart landed in his throat.

“Doctor Philip Boyce. Your new CMO.”

Pike smiled, stood, and extended a hand to shake. Phil took it, and a little bolt of electricity zinged between them.

“Call me Chris,” he said genially. “I’m delighted to meet you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Two or three years ago, I wrote a story with a similar skeleton to this one in a fandom for which I no longer write. I always liked the concept, weird though it was, and wanted to try my hand at translating it into this fandom. I know it's strange, but I hope you like it anyway!


End file.
